New Home, Old Home
by mutietootie
Summary: Sometimes, you just have to go back to your roots. In Mettaton's case, the only root he has is way under the surface.


yet another fuckin mettaton

more 2 come

* * *

"Blooky, dear, you don't mind keeping an eye on the house for a bit, do you? I have to go out."

"Oh... uh, sure, Mettaton. I don't have anything planned… Like always…"

"Oh, honey, I'd invite you to come along, but this errand in particular… is a little… personal."

"...Is that so? You're not doing anything weird again, right?"

"No, no, just feeling a bit… nostalgic…"

"...I understand. I'll stay home with Shyren. Go do your thing."

"Thank you, darling!~ I'll be back for dinner, toodles!"

* * *

Thankfully to all those who had been trapped down there, the Underground was easy to escape, now that the Barrier had been lifted. Thus had been proven by the waves upon waves of monsters who had gushed out of the exit mere hours after it had opened, all with suitcases full of clothes and heirlooms, clutching the hands of family members as to not lose them.

Some, of course, remained, unable to break ties with their homes and surroundings. A prime example could be the lovely old turtle treasurer who had set up shop so close to the old snail farm. He remained there to search for more artifacts, and to tell the tales of the now olden times when monsters could be found left and right. He was writing a book on them now, rumors say. But he, and everyone else who had stayed, had freedom to leave whenever they pleased.

Now, for those who wanted to come back in, it was another journey entirely.

There was the old route, the one way in/no way out method, where one had to climb Mt. Ebott, stare death in the face, and leap into the hole that the humans had fallen through, not knowing if fate would smile upon them and let them live, or if they would shatter and die the second they hit hard ruin floor. For those who made the journey, they usually aimed for the latter.

The other way was in through the way they came out, through the non-existent barrier, into the corridors of Asgore's palace, and out on to the streets of New Home. The journey was a simple and easy one, no doubt, if one could bear the stares of monster settlers just outside the mouth or the judgements of human eyes watching from monitors away in the big city. "Traitor," they would all whisper, "they are blessed with a life in the outside world, and yet they choose to go back in? Do they not appreciate what that human child has done to liberate us?"

With the incredible speed that gossip travels, by the time the one who had entered came back out, their reputation, maybe even their way of life, would be destroyed. Heads would turn to look away, legs would jut out to trip them, the sidewalk would be spit on by their shoes, they would be refused service in stores, their houses would be coated in graffiti, their inboxes flooded with hate mail, death threats, sharp hisses of "traitor… traitor…," the list goes on. Such a stigma surrounded them that the effects eventually bleed onto anyone with relations to the Underground-goer, friends, family, enemies, anyone, until they, as a group, find themselves completely alienated, and then, somehow, gone.

This reason in particular, is why Mettaton decided to take the scenic route and plunge into the crevice of Mt. Ebott. He couldn't do that to himself; much less to Blooky and Shyren.

He trekked up the slopes, heeled boots forgone for easier tennis shoes, on the overgrown pathway. He tread quietly, shying away from any sign of movement or sort of life form that could recognize him, even under his figure-concealing outfit of a big baggy sweater. It was a precaution more than anything, for he _really_ didn't want anyone to see him doing this.

It wasn't shameful, per se, but also something he didn't want to admit to doing.

Upon reaching it, he stared into chasm, somewhat admiring its mystery, with its dark-as-night shadows of the walls and invisible floor. Something like the rabbit hole in a tale Alphys had once told to him whilst in for repairs. It was still a sight to see, even if he already knew what the bottom of the pit foretold.

And with that moment of euphoria as a springboard, he lept in, feet first, hurtling down into blackness.

But, of course, he wasn't so much of an idiot as to risk death this freely. He massaged his wrist until a satisfying click bounced off the quickly moving walls, and his hand popped clean off, only with a strong steel cable connecting it to the end of his arm. Now with thick fingers formed into pointed stakes, he twirled the cable, and released it upwards for the hooks to grip onto the jagged walls. His hand made contact with hard limestone, and through some effort, Mettaton ground his fingers inward to find some sort of handhold, or at least some traction to slow himself down with. It scraped down, the feeling sending his artificial nerves into screeches of agony, unable to find a strong foothold, and leaving a deep, wavering line in the rock with a sound so grating that it reverberated in the hollows of Mettaton's chest.

He fell further and further, ever so much closer to the ground, without the hook ever stopping in its dragging. But no worries, he thought with a wince. He was going to find a hold sooner or later, he'll be fine. It's not like he was a 2000 pound hunk of metal shooting down a pit at near-terminal velocity who was foolish enough to leave the jetpack function in his old form, right?

…

A bloodcurdling screech bounced off the walls above him.

It took a moment for him to realize that he was the source.

Luckily, just moments after, his claws hit solid rock, and stopped. The cable jerked him upwards as he reached the end, the force causing searing pain in his arm socket. He hissed through clenched teeth. Using the opportunity after a moment of panic, he scrambled to kick his legs out to the rock in order to stabilize himself.

After a moment of attempting to calm down, Mettaton peered down below, and found that the ruin floors were much closer than he anticipated. An easy descent in repayment for his near-trauma, it seemed.

With the rest of his stored cable, he slowly and carefully lowered himself to the ruins below, gazing around at the sudden opening of the room, and the newfound purples of previously uncolored walls. Once low enough, he dismounted with a hop, into an oddly-placed patch of buttercups, crushing a few with his astounding weight.

He would have felt sorry for them; had he not seen the horrors that a single flower had thrown upon his companions. So, he walked on, without a word to the poor, trampled, buttercups.

* * *

On he ventured, out from the Ruins, through the still-frozen snowbanks of a now abandoned Snowdin, past the puddles in Waterfall, and carefully over the flowing banks of the dump.

He waded through muddy grounds, his weight sinking him further into the mess, wincing at every squelch following behind his footsteps, a terrible discomfort crawling up his calves due to the cooling mud. He could swear that there was grass growing in every crevice of his lower half, with dirt grinding into joints like sand between teeth. It was maddening, especially to someone of his untainted image. If the fans could see him now...

During his grimy self-pity, an old wooden fence had come into view, moldy and wet, but solid nonetheless. He had nearly squealed in his elation to leave the disgusting grounds, and scrambled towards it, slipping and sliding over wet terrain. (He never fell though, thanks to his _fantastically balanced, perfectly lean, thank-the-heavens-for-Alphys,_ legs) When he came upon its mildewy glory, he propped himself up upon one of the higher rungs, lifting himself out of the mess below. The fence groaned under his weight, but stayed strong. Mettaton patted it in mock thanks.

From his perch, he stared outward to the narrow cavern. The area was deemed different than the Waterfall he had grown up in, the one he had shared with his extended family on the farm, the one he had cared for so deeply down in his heart. But something still felt like home to him. Something about the walls, or the floor, or maybe even the fence he was sitting upon, struck him with an astounding familiarity, bringing back pink memories of childhood. Vivid pictures came into his mind, pictures of dozing on cool limestone floors, chasing moths in the light of crystals, and watching slugs make homes in fresh snail shells...

Slowly, recognition melted down the cave walls and fell to land on everything that was not hidden by mud. He stared for a moment, mouth slightly agape as he took it all in, wondering how he could have forgotten in the first place.

He found himself hopping off the fence into the mud once more, and bounding eastward.

Not soon after, he came upon a place he could not bear to disregard, a place filled with so many memories and moments to never forget, and, as he pushed through the unlocked door, he realized it was a place he had left behind much too soon.

It wasn't the best of their ideas to leave the doors to the homes open and unlocked, as proven by the terrible disarray that his house had been left in, with wallpaper torn and drawers rummaged through, (he couldn't imagine what horrors Napstablook's house may have gone through) but, through excitement-clouded minds, it was what idea had seemed best. "What was the point of having a house if no one was to go into it?" they had thought. "They could be rest stops for travelling families, or shelters from the waterfall's rains."

To those purposes the houses were indeed used, evidently by the watermarks of footprints by monsters aplenty, as well as dents from heavy suitcases being thrown down, all on his tarnished wooden floors. Along with the evidence, however, signs of ransackers and looters were overt. After a quick examination of his closet and drawers, he had to admit that they were extremely greedy. The fridge was gone, the mattresses were gone, the clock, the rug, the TV, his posters, his diaries, all gone.

Mettaton had to admit, it squeezed his heart to realize that his home was now barely attributed to him or his past life there.

However, with all the good that his leave has done, he was just the slightest bit proud that it had detached itself from him.

But with the thought, came a feeling of unwelcomeness, and he found himself turning heel, showing his own way out.

With one foot out the door, he paused for a moment. A little curl of wallpaper had been coming loose, due to the glue under an old seam giving in. He picked at the peel, and wedged a finger into the little gap it had made between drywall and design. As it tore up and ripped off the plaster, Mettaton found himself sadly smiling. Water-stained and faded as it was, it was still what he had chosen all those years ago. A sizable piece of paper had been loosened, just enough to preserve the design. With a twist of his wrist, he tore it off, only to shove it into his pocket moments after.

He did the same for the house next door. Blooky would be happy to have it.

...Or upset. It was hard to tell with them.

Administering a final goodbye, he abandoned his home for the umpteenth time now, and set forth to the west, trekking through the mud once more.

* * *

Hotland was a disaster. An absolute nightmare.

Some time ago, something must have collapsed and fell into the magma below, causing a small explosion of hot rock to come raining down on every last piece of land hovering above it.

MTT Resort was not spared.

Mettaton, as proud owner and founder, reacted to this in the most professional and dignified of ways possible, by only collapsing to his knees and throwing just a small temper tantrum. His screams only _kind of_ echoed off the walls. The feat was not long-lasting, however, the effort bearing fruitless with no one around to react to his anguish. It was given up after a hour-long session of moping and kicking at stones.

With a shooing away of his last bits of depression, Mettaton pushed on into the ruined resort. It wasn't that hard to get in, with the glass doors being broken and all, but staying in was a problem. Looters had not been nearly as forgiving here as they were with his house, but that was not the true issue. The real issue was how there was an enormous crack in the floor, one that lead up the walls and into the ceiling, creating an astounding instability in both the building and himself.

Oh, he was _most certainly_ not using the elevator here.

Cautiously, he toed towards the center of the floor, only to have it crumble under him, falling down into the basement below.

He cursed his weight. Or well, he would have, had it not been such a lovely part of him. He did, after all, clock in at 2000 pounds, a Metta- _ton_ , if you will.

With that notion now taken account of, Mettaton stuck to the walls, his steps light and careful, up on his tiptoes and walking with a grace that only someone born in stilettos could own. He stepped past the fountain and the apartments, only stopping to peer into the Burger Emporium, just to make sure a certain somebody wasn't still there.

He wasn't. His fur was, though. As well as the dried puddle of sweat and tears he had always stood in, day after day, paycheck after paycheck.

Mettaton laughed at that, high and metallic. He kind of misses his shitty employee. Wait. No he doesn't. ...No, he does. He just misses berating him, is all. Even if he had been faithful to the end, no matter how much crap he had gone through, and was a constant in Mettaton's life that he unadmittedly appreciated.

...He needs to leave.

So he skitters to the passageway leading to the Core, hopping over yet another broken glass door, and onto the passageway. The passageway is, thankfully, not broken and the elevator is, more thankfully, functional as well.

* * *

New Home.

It's as grey as ever.

Elegant architectures created a charming skyline, despite the lack of actual sky, with domed roofs and arched windows reminiscent of something ancient and appreciated for its romantic nature. The alleyways snaking between them created a significant depth,

But it was still grey. A dull, dull, dull, grey.

Mettaton wanted nothing more but to rip through the streets with buckets of paints and splatter everything in sight.

But, alas, that would ruin the structured and mature aesthetics of the city. He instead kept to himself and plopped on the ledge overseeing the city, legs hanging down and off, admiring the great, if not dull, view.

He remembers his first visit here, as a newly formed ghostling, floating in with his parents and gazing around at the sights, noticing how bright he shone against the monotonous colors of the buildings, and, quite frankly, the people.

That is, until he made it into the castle.

Oh, it was a dream come true, just like in the tales of princesses he loved so dearly. Each room blossomed in its own way, in astounding golds and yellows, so much so that he felt unworthy to touch anything, his commoner's soul tainting the colors, as if oxidizing copper.

Then, he reached the throne room.

He had been brought there to be blessed by Asgore, something of a tradition between ghosts, so that they may cut their ties with whatever they had been whilst "alive" and as a prayer to live a happy and long afterlife. It's really a simple process. Asgore, and on the occasion, Toriel, would meet with them, ask how they were and such, prod to see if they had any lingering memories, and, if not, shake their hand, give them a kiss on the forehead, and send them off with a lily. The man always had a thing for flowers.

He and Napstablook had gone in tandem, he being a new ghost and Blooky having skipped their first few appointments due to nerves, and they had gone through flawlessly.

Even as children, the two were perfect, he could not deny.

But it was not the blessings that had gained Mettaton's attention, oh no, it was the luxuries of the room. The columns lining the walls, the precious tiled floor, the ever-so-carefully arranged garden, luscious ivy creeping up the brick walls, as well as the regal notions of that plush, golden, throne. And him, being a young little thing, wanted it all, and was not afraid to announce it.

Asgore drew surprise from his outburst, then laughed something booming and jolly, before saying that he could have anything he wants, as long as he set his mind to it.

Sometimes Mettaton thinks that's where the whole charade started. Wanting to become corporeal, wanting to become a star, wanting to become human.

The second time he had come to the Capital, he had been out for the trip. He had fallen asleep at Alphys' home lab on an examination table, and woke up much later when his power switch had been flipped, finding himself blinded by shining golds and bright lights coming from frosted glass windows.

At this point, he was completely new to his body, the rectangular hunk-of-junk he had loved so much, having only been put in just a week ago, and only being semi-conscious for half a day. So when he awoke in that Last Corridor, he felt as if a newborn, confused and overwhelmed by the different surroundings and different people through different eyes; and quite frankly, he was scared. He stood there on his single wheel in utter silence for a long, long moment, trying to gain his bearings, but finding no coming adjustments.

That is, until he heard the voices. A small, yet grating and nervous, voice, unmistakably belonging to Alphys, and the soft, deep, comforting bellow of their king. They were talking amongst themselves, the conversation a nice constant to Mettaton's current state, and he slowly found his sight clearing and limbs unfreezing. When he finally felt stable enough, he spoke.

"Hello. Am I… Interrupting something?"

The conversation immediately halted, the words hanging in the air for a moment, surprise on their faces melting into shock, before a sudden eruption rose in the two before him, and they charged him in a hug, happiness filling their mouths and expressions. Through their cheers of accomplishment, to which Mettaton could only pick up a few segments of, the blurbs consisting of "I did it, no, _we_ did it," "ghosts are the key," "a robot with a soul," "God, he's beautiful," and some mentions about royal scientists or whatever, he found himself reminiscing about way back when he was last here, when Asgore had shared such kind words to him before.

Then it dawned on him.

He had gotten what he had wanted.

And he found himself cheering too.

With the memories fading away, Mettaton tuned back into the present world, the one overlooking the grey buildings, and let out a happy sigh.

His life had begun here, his life had reached its peak here, it was most certainly someplace special to him.

A "New Home," one could say. He chuckled to himself at that.

As he gazed out into the cityscape, hiding in the shadow of the castle over the ledge, Mettaton realized he finally felt at peace. His homesickness and remembrance of the past had now quelled, with the relief of finally listening to a song stuck in your mind.

Mettaton relished in this, a small smile sneaking on his lips, and closed his eyes, listening to the calming silence of the city.

Until, a disturbance.

Out into the distance, a whistle rang out.

He popped open an eye for a quick survey around him. There was nothing.

The whistle rang out again.

And again, and again, until a bird's song had composed itself in the echoing alleyways of the city.

He leaned forward, over the edge, trying to hone in on the sound, to perceive where its origin lay, when suddenly-

A light tap on his back.

And he was falling forward.

Before he could believe it, he was staring at the hard floor of an open intersection of alleyways, details forthcoming as he plummeted towards them.

An attempt of a cry tried to escape from his mouth, but the ground came faster than it, and it never had a chance to be freed.

He hit with a tremendous clang, vibrations ringing throughout the hollows in his body, and the concrete underneath him cracking deeply in a spiderweb. A wave of nausea came over him, dizziness soon joining in, both then spinning in a whirlpool of agonizing confusion. It hurt to move, to think, to stay awake and aware of the images grinding and crashing together in front of him. He could feel the dents on his chest, the rattling of now loose screws inside of him, and… wait… was the glass on his dial broken? Oh hell, that's gonna be a nightmare to fix-

"Hey." Someone said, monotonous and low.

...Who said that?

"You're back to wreak more havoc?" The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.

...What?

It continued, grumbling in something akin to annoyance. "Haven't you done enough? There are so many timelines that you have wrecked, so many lives you have ended, so many tolls that you have neglected to give in to."

Mettaton propped himself up on his knees, them being as far as he cold go, with the dizziness lingering and himself feeling incredibly small, but chose to speak anyway.

"Who's there-" He squeaked, then hastily took his tongue between his teeth as his eyes widened. Oh no. He drew his hands to his neck. His voice, his lovely voice! It was just like a child's now, it must have been damaged in the fall-

"Oh, you know who I am." They said, low and rumbling, the location still unable to pinpoint. "After all, I'm the only one who knows of you."

He stilled for a moment, then spoke, confused. "...What are you talking about?" came the child's voice. He was remembered by everyone; he was a star, for goodness sake.

From the alley to his left, the narrowest of the few, something thudded on the empty street. Then again, and again, until the soft footsteps were nearing, and a shadow emerged, dark for all but a blue light residing on its right side.

A chuckle, before the rumbling words rang out again. "Kid, don't play games with me. I've had more than my fair share of your fuckery." Something cracked near the figure, and the blue wavered, then moved closer to him. "Do you know how many timelines I've crossed trying to catch you? I don't. Your little manipulations made sure of that." A step forward. "But that doesn't matter now, does it? I'm here now, in this timeline, with you. And you, kid, are going to die here, with me."

Mettaton was metal ice, frozen and unmoving, an expression of unadulterated terror plastered on his face. He was the slightest bit afraid he was going to be stuck this way.

The voice chuckled. "Heh, I can't even see your face. You could be smiling for all I know. Sounds like something you would do."

The blue light rose from its place to point directly at him, only the silhouette of a hand rearing visible inside it.

Then, it burst. It was a fiery inferno, the color of frozen seas and winter skies, wrapping around him and squeezing until he could feel his plates begin to crush under the pressure. He felt his knees leave the ground, and soon enough, he was floating near the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, glaring into the light above him.

From the shadows down below, a faint grunt echoed. "Whew, you're heavy. Been packing some pounds under that striped shirt of yours, eh? Or is it just the weight of your sins?" Another grunt, this one for preparing something. "Now, then, let's get this show on the road, any last requests?"

That was when realization hit. He was going to die here, wasn't he. He was going to die. That's one of the disadvantages of becoming fully corporeal, when your body dies, you go too. And what a way to go, killed by some stranger in the Underground he fought so hard to get out of, flying high above the tops of buildings in new home, bathed in the lights of the ruined city. Such a dramatic finish, perfect for a star such as him.

At this, Mettaton could say that he was panicked to the point of total tranquility, but that would be a lie. It was really more of a "let's bury our feelings so that we die happy" kind of attitude gone wrong, with his mind totally serene, but his eyes darting back and forth, his legs quivering, and his eyes threatening tears. Heh, wouldn't that just be hilarious. Dying of water intolerance just before being murdered. A shame he would never be able to use that plotline in a movie, he'd even been thinking of a murder mystery for the next.

A cough from below. "I'm waiting."

The debate over last words ran quickly but effectively through his mind, there was so much to say, so much he wanted to leave in the world, yet nothing wanted to come through. He wanted to thank Alphys, Asgore, Blooky, Shyren, the little darling Frisk, his family, his fans, those two skeleton brothers he had met some time ago, but nothing came through. And as he heard the tap tap tap of his assailant's shoe on the ground in restrained impatience, he decided to leave all his thanks to himself, and leave the world with his words something for the critics to rave about.

So he looked down into the abyss, and said, as smoothly as he could in that childish squeal, "Tell Napstablook that I'll be missing dinner."

"Oh, you sassy little brat. Alright, a declined dinner invitation to the ghosty. What, you pals with them? I didn't know you were capable." They laugh, as if the statement was an inside joke. "I was hoping for something more interesting, but apparently you're a bit boo-ring. Heheh."

If he hadn't been on the verge of death, he wold have scoffed at the horrid attempt at humor.

"But one question for ya, who should I say it's from? You've had plenty of names, kid."

Mettaton tries to reply with another question, but his words are halted.

"Wait, don't answer. You've already had your last words. Let's just call you Character. Chara the Character, a dashing and dangerous fiend who had slaughtered many a friend and foe. Yeah, sounds appropriate. They'll know who I'm talking about."

"Now, yadda yadda r.i.p in pieces, if you've got prayers kid, keep 'em." The last words from the voice rose the alleyway walls, in a ringing, sarcastic display. Then, a menacing chuckle, and even from above, Mettaton could witness the chill of menacing darkened eyes finally meeting his own.

Out came the final words, dragged in a slur of an ominous threat, **" l-"**

The sentence abruptly cut, and to this, Mettaton assumed the worst. Time to perish, he thought. Goodbye to the world.

He sucked in a breath, not that he needed it. The romanticism of having a last breath was always something he'd appreciated in the human movies he had seen. Must be nice, to breathe. A shame he would never really get the chance.

He braced himself.

.

.

.

But nothing came.

No painful pressure, no deathly drop, nothing. The reason why, he saw as he drew his eyes downward, was that the face of his assailant was now clear in the light, and to the person on the ground, the same had happened to himself.

Mettaton then met an eye, blue, cold, and small with shock, in the now forgiving light of New Home's streets.

The voice, belonging to that eye and now assigned a role to a certain skeleton, stuttered, as if talking to himself. "You're not the Human."

The bony hand lowered, now devoid of flames, as the two stared at one another, recognition bursting onto their faces, only to be followed by shock, and in Mettaton's case, fear, as they realized that one of the two was plummeting towards the ground.

And, through a blur of everything happening too quickly, all the automaton could comprehend was a yell of "Oh shit!-" The rest, was left to darkness.


End file.
